


diametrically opposed (bros)

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Friendship, Gen, Parallels, and also a little bit during that episode, it's mostly Alice and eliot, set pre-Remedial Battle Magic, the teensiest smidgeon of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18392948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: If a casual observer were to glance at Alice Quinn and Eliot Waugh, they might be forgiven for thinking that they were diametrically opposed in every sense. One a shy, talented magician characterised by her fierce intelligence and an inviolable sense of morality, the other a careful construct of a human, elegantly coiffed and composed at all times, and having never opened a book before in his life.On the surface, nothing links the two, the casual observer would conclude.The casual observer would be wrong.Three things that Eliot and Alice have in common, and one thing that they share.





	diametrically opposed (bros)

**Author's Note:**

> Title adapted from Hamilton lyrics.

If a casual observer were to glance at Alice Quinn and Eliot Waugh, they might be forgiven for thinking that they were diametrically opposed in every sense. One a shy, talented magician characterised by her fierce intelligence and an inviolable sense of morality, the other a careful construct of a human, elegantly coiffed and composed at all times, and having never opened a book before in his life.

 

On the surface nothing links the two, the casual observer would conclude.

 

The casual observer would be wrong.

 

1.

 

_Alice_

 

She clicks on another promising site.

 

‘Cheap Lolita Dresses!!!!!’ it promises, background a lurid pink that makes Alice’s eyes hurt. It doesn’t matter. They have good photos, and that’s what’s important.

 

She zooms in on a promising dress, and spends a moment studying it. Yes. She can do this.

 

She stands and makes her way to her closet. Takes out the dress that her mom had bought her: low-cut and frilly and bright pink. She hates it, and she’s sure that her mom knows that she hates it. It’s probably why she bought it in the first place.

 

Placing it on the ground, she raises her hands and concentrates. Her hands move fluidly, long practise having paid off and the dress slowly darkens. She continues, delicate hand-gestures gradually transforming the dress on the floor until it is identical to the one on her monitor.

 

She picks it up. Her mother will hate it. Perfect.

 

_Eliot_

 

Perfect. He picks up the finished vest, admiring the feel of the expensive fabric. He’s come a long way from his first few projects, where the only material he could afford was cribbed from Walmart curtains. Nowadays he can afford a better class of fabric. And magic can achieve many things.

 

He opens it and checks the lining: perfectly matched to the outside vest, and no sign of any of the seams poking through.

 

He slips on the garment and stands in front of his mirror. It was the first thing that he enchanted when he moved into the Cottage, a full-length monstrosity that allows him to inspect himself from all angles.

 

The man looking back at him is sophisticated. Beautifully put together. His vest complements his ascot, his trousers are perfectly pressed, and his hair is artfully tousled, one lock falling charmingly over his forehead. His father would hate it.

 

He smiles.

 

2.

 

_Eliot_

 

“Mr Waugh. A word please.”

 

Sunderland’s voice rings out though the emptying classroom.

 

He sighs.

 

“Go on without me Bambi,” he says languidly, making a little shoo-ing motion with his hands. Margo frowns at him, but something in his eyes must give him away because she does as he asks.

 

He turns and makes his way to the podium at the front of the room.

 

“Yes Pearl?” he says, making sure to keep his tone light and unconcerned.

 

She shakes her head at him. Tries to hide the fondness in her eyes.

 

“I’ve got another project for you,” she says instead.

 

“Extra credit?”

 

“Worth an additional 2%.”

 

Eliot sighs. Another week of all-nighters looms, sneaking out of the Cottage in the early hours of the morning to spend hours researching in the library.

 

“Lay it on me,” he says.

 

Sunderland takes a small scroll from her desk and holds it out. She hesitates.

 

“Mr Waugh. Eliot. Your grades are as perfect as ever. I don’t know why you insist on doing all of this extra work.”

 

Eliot smiles charmingly.

 

“You know me,” he flippantly, “Always an overachiever.”

 

Sunderland doesn’t press, although her lips purse disapprovingly. Eliot grabs the scroll before she can change her mind and makes his way out of the classroom.

 

It’s not like he can explain it. The terror that comes from the thought of being kicked out of Brakebills, from having to leave the only place he can truly be himself. Having to return home, tail between his legs, and submit to his family and a life of drudgery. No memories, no magic, no hope.

 

Of course, if Henry wants to kick him out there’s no amount of extra credit that’ll stop him. But…it can’t hurt.

 

_Alice_

 

“Extra-credit Ms Quinn?” Sunderland raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

 

“Your grades are perfect. You don’t need extras credit.”

 

“I just want to get some more experience,” Alice says, holding her nerve.

 

Sunderland looks at her, really looks, and for a moment Alice is afraid that she’s going to be found out.

 

Sunderland looks down, and the moment breaks. She picks up a piece of paper from her desk.

 

“Well, I was going to give this to another student, but god knows that boy could do with a rest before he strains something. Here. Take this. I want it enchanted and on my desk by Friday.”

 

“Thank you, professor,” Alice says, and quickly spins around and exits the classroom before anyone can stop her. She makes a beeline for the library, clasping the paper in her hand like a lifeline.

 

And it is. A lifeline. She knows that she can complete the extra work easily enough: it was never about the work. It’s the excuse she needs, a reason to be near the more advanced and dangerous books in the library. Books that first years are heavily discouraged from reading. Books that include research on niffins.

 

Charlie, she thinks, I’m coming.

 

3.

 

_Alice_

 

“Alice,” Quentin says, “You’re humming.”

 

Alice stops.

 

“What?” she says, and her voice is high pitched, “No I’m not.”

 

“Yeah you were,” says Quentin, “It was-” his face screws up in concentration. “I know it,” he mutters "It’s the one from the Breakfast Club. Erm. Don’t think about me? Something like that.”

 

“You must have been imagining things,” Alice says.

 

“No, I-”

 

“Look Quentin, do you want to talk about this, or do you want to get back to studying?”

 

_Eliot_

 

“Oh my god Eliot, what the fuck are you singing?”

 

“What?”

 

Eliot stops self-consciously, before he remembers himself and leans into it instead.

 

“Singing? Moi? I suppose I might have been. I can’t say that I was paying it any notice though Bambi.”

 

Margo rolls her eyes at him.

 

“Sure, you weren’t. It’s not like you regularly steal my hairbrush so that we can sing Britney together. Seriously though El, what was that?”

 

Thinking back it’s possible, maybe, that he might have been absent-mindedly humming ‘Take me Home, Country Roads’ while setting up the bar for the evening.

 

“Nothing,” he says firmly. He grabs a glass and quickly hands it to Margo.

 

“More importantly,” he says, “Try that and tell me what a genius I am.”

 

 

+1

 

“Well, well Alice, what have we here?”

 

Alice doesn’t jump. She doesn’t. Instead she carefully sets her pen down, places a bookmark in the thick tome she’s reading and calmly looks up.

 

“I’m studying,” she says, keeping the irritated tone out of her voice with difficulty, “Something that you should be doing if you want to survive the year.”

 

Eliot smiles, and there’s something bitter and pained in it. He sits down opposite Alice, spreading out over two chairs until he’s lounging like a house cat, propped up on one elbow. It should look ridiculous. It doesn’t.

 

“Drink?” he asks casually, offering his omnipresent flask.

 

“No!” Alice says, “It’s ten am.”

 

Eliot shrugs, the action imbued with a casual elegance, a Gallic _je ne sais quoi_ , and takes a deep swig out of his flask.

 

Alice waits. Eliot makes no move to leave or to say what he wants, twisting his flask in his hands and studying the silver etchings as if they hold the secrets of the universe. Or maybe he’s just high: it’s hard to tell with Eliot.

 

The silence continues.

 

Finally Alice has had enough. She’s actually doing something useful, studying battle magic so that they don’t have to rely on those stupid emotion bottles. She doesn’t have time to deal with Eliot’s Eliotness.

 

She stands abruptly, ignoring the dirty looks from the other students at the clatter her chair makes. They can just deal with it: she’s the one (and sometimes it feels like she’s the only one) trying to make sure they don’t all get horribly killed by the Beast.

 

“I need you to help with battle magic.”

 

“What?” Alice asks.

 

Eliot looks up, a sardonic half-smile on his lips.

 

“You heard me Quinn. I need you to tutor me in battle magic.”

 

He takes another drink.

 

“I can’t keep using the emotion bottles. It fucks me up whenever I have to take them back. I just keep thinking, ten more minutes can’t hurt, or an hour… I might not be the most self-aware of people, but I even I know that it’s a problem when I start fantasising about using them. But I also can’t do battle magic without them: I’ve tried but whenever I start, I just keep thinking about…”

 

He trails off. Swallows heavily.

 

“So you need me to help you?” Alice says.

 

“Essentially,” Eliot says, back to his intent study of his flask, “It’s one thing if I fuck myself up, but I figure that you guys are counting on me so...”

 

He shrugs again.

 

“Why me?”

 

“Well, it’s you or Penny, and I’d have to be significantly more fucked up to willingly spend time in his company. Anyway, I figured I’d have more luck with you. No-one puts Baby in the corner, and all that.”

 

Alice’s lips twitch despite herself.

 

“Dirty Dancing,” she says, “That’s my favourite film.”

 

Eliot looks back up at her.

 

“Mine too,” he says glibly, “Patrick Swayze. All must bow before him.”

 

“Patrick Swayze,” Alice agrees.

 

She extends her hand, and after a brief minute Eliot takes it.

 

“Just remember,” she says, and clears her throat before reciting: “This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don’t into yours, you don’t go into mine. You gotta hold the frame.”

 

“Maybe you aren’t so bad after all Alice.”

 

(The morning after IT happens, Alice doesn’t look at Eliot. Doesn’t acknowledge him. She’s spent her anger on Quentin, and she’s tired. She doesn’t know what she expected.

 

That’s the end of the battle magic lessons.)

**Author's Note:**

> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


End file.
